


Scary Monsters

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Baz coming into his vampirism, Blood, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Daphne is a good person, Feeding, Hunting, M/M, Magical Creatures, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Set at the Oxford estate, Simon POV briefly, So I'm going to post it for angst but it's a little bit of all of them, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Angst, and by the end it was a deep dive into youthful Baz angst, parental figures, pre-Watford/during Watford years/Post Watford, then it morphed into parental figures, then it seemed far more suited to Carry On prequel, there is reference to the family dog mentioned in Wayward Son, this started as for the magical creatures prompt, young Baz Pitch, young Baz having anxiety about what lies ahead for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: set pre-Carry On. Young Baz deals with his concerns and anxieties about his eventual transition to full vampire state. There is support for him, from unexpected sources, but it doesn't make the realizations and realities all that much easier to face. But sometimes it's good to know you aren't completely alone. Originally written for the Carry On Countdown  magical creatures prompt but then it expanded to a Carry On prequel with an added a dash of parental figures to finally end up solidly in the angst category. Consider this a combo fic for all of those prompts.
Relationships: Daphne Grimm & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559566
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	Scary Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> art by the lovely drvivc (@fight-surrender on Tumblr!)
> 
> (Not completely canon compliant as I have Baz starting to hunt fourth year rather than fifth as is suggested in Carry On)

**_Four Years Ago_ **

**Baz**

I don’t like the lodge much. We aren’t here often so it doesn’t feel like home. 

My room is smaller here. It doesn’t have gargoyles so I suppose that’s something, but I miss my books. I miss the library. The one here isn’t as grand. The books are older, dustier, darker. Ones Father would rather not have on display. 

They don’t hold much appeal for a ten-year-old, even though I read far above my age level. 

But Father is intent on letting Daphne become familiar with each of our estates this summer so we’ve been traveling from one to the other since June. They started in the south of France. Daphne offered to have me go with them, but Fiona wouldn’t hear of it.

“For Crowley’s sake, who takes a child along on their honeymoon?” Fiona had snorted. “You’d think Malcolm would come up with something a little more exciting than Bordeaux for you, Daphne, but then again it is Malcolm so I suppose you’re lucky he isn’t taking you to the estate in Galloway.” 

She’d ignored Father’s indignant huff. “You’ll have all the time in the world with Baz. This is just two weeks, for Christ’s sake.” Fiona swears like a Normal when she’s worked up. “Take a few days alone with Malcolm. See if you can get that stick-in-the-mud to lighten up a little.” Daphne had made some protestation but Fiona had cut her off. “Baz will be fine with me.” 

That’s how I managed to spend two weeks in London at Fiona’s new flat. 

It was brilliant. We hit all the typical tourist stops--The Tower, The London Eye, Westminster, the markets at Covent Garden, but she also took me to the cinema to see _Ratatouille_ and The Globe to see _A Comedy of Errors_. 

It was the best part of my summer.

We ended up going to Galloway after all, once Father and Daphne returned from France. It was cold and rainy the entire time. And now we’re near Oxford, at the lodge. We’ve got one more week here and then I finally get to go home. 

To my room. Gargoyles and all. Back to my books, my violin. Back to tennis lessons at the Club. Back home. Where everything is familiar. 

Except for Daphne. She’ll be new there. 

But I like Daphne. Truly, I do. She’s kind and she doesn’t push. I think she’ll be good for Father. I think she already has been. It’s nice to see him smile more. 

But that leaves me frightfully bored at the moment. Vera went to the market and Father and Daphne have been sorting books for hours. 

Fiona’s in London. 

There aren’t any neighbours for miles. 

I finished reading all the books I brought with me and I don’t fancy looking for more in the library. Father will probably set me to work alphabetizing the ones he’s sorted.

I’d rather not. 

I mope around my room for a bit longer and then trudge downstairs to find something to eat. Vera made a trifle yesterday and I’m sure there’s some still in the refrigerator. Daphne finds me poking about in the kitchen and serves me up a healthy portion of trifle without me even having to ask. 

“What are you up to today, Basil? Another book? Or a tramp out in the garden?”

“I finished the books I brought with me.”

“Ah. That’s a bit troublesome.” She shakes her head and gives me a smile. “Not much for you in the library here, that’s for certain.” She tilts her head. “Unless you’d care to tackle the _Iliad_ in the original Greek? There are one or two copies at least, if you’d like one. Malcolm says you’ve got a good grasp of it already.”

I do. But probably not enough to puzzle out Homer. Not yet. As much as I love languages I don’t feel like plodding through Greek today. I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I’m restless but blank on inspiration. 

I wish I’d thought to bring my violin.

I shake my head and scoop up the last bit of trifle. 

“Maybe take a turn in the garden?” Daphne suggests. “It’s a nice enough day, not too bright or hot.”

She _knows_ , of course. It’s something Father told her when things had become serious between them. Before he had asked her to marry him. 

I think her response to his revelation made his decision.

She’s never said anything to me about it. Father told me he had spoken to her, assured me she is most concerned about how she can help, when the time comes.

 _When the time comes._

I don’t think any of us know when that’s going to be. Father rarely speaks of it. Fiona never mentions it. I’ve no idea what to expect, other than what I’ve read in the library at home. Books I’ve pulled down from the high shelves, the dark corners of the library. Books full of hearsay and folk tales, lurid second hand accounts and likely more fiction than fact. 

None of which helps. 

I’ll be heading to Watford once I turn eleven. A place where no one will know about me and where I won’t have anyone to walk me through whatever might happen. 

I can hope that it occurs when I’m home but there’s no guarantee. 

I take Daphne’s suggestion and go out to the garden but there’s nothing to do there either. I walk by the roses. I go to the back where the herb garden is. The scents all mingle here--mint, basil, coriander, sage. I can smell them all, even if I don’t pick the leaves and crush them between my fingers. 

I wonder about that. I wonder if it means something. If the transition is coming. It’s in the books. The books about vampires. It’s one of the few things that seems to be consistently reported--the heightened senses. 

Vision, hearing, smell. 

It’s mentioned in most of the accounts--along with the blood lust, the pale skin, the ferocious strength (the bit about garlic is rot) (pesto is full of garlic and I’ve never had a problem). 

I can’t say I’ve experienced anything like blood lust. Not that I’d know what that is, really. I like a good steak, preferably rare, but I’m not raiding the refrigerator for raw cuts of meat or developing a craving for blood pudding (I hate it actually). 

I am pale. It seems like my skin fades a bit more each year.

In the photos with Mother I look . . . well, I look like her, I suppose. 

I don’t anymore.

I’m not particularly stronger than other children my age, not that I can tell. I have a solid serve but I’ve been getting tennis lessons since I was six. I should hope I’m decent at it by now. It would be embarrassing for the Club instructor if I wasn’t. I beat Dev almost every time we play but it’s more that I pay attention than due to the quality of my game. 

I’m better at football. I’ve got a vicious kick--not my words--it’s what my coach said to Father at the end of last season. It’s powerful and I’m fairly accurate but it’s not as if I can hurt someone with the way I drill a ball.

I’d never want to do that. I wouldn’t be able to play anymore. I love football. I’d miss it far too much. I don’t want to think about it. That this stupid condition will keep changing me and make me lose something else I love.

I’ve already lost the most important person in my life because of it. 

How much more will get taken away?

I kick a rock off the path in frustration and wish I could kick something else. 

I don’t want to be thinking about this but I can’t help it. There are so many questions but no one wants to talk about it. I think Father would rather pretend it never happened. 

We talk about Mother but never about _that._ Never about me. Even Fiona avoids the subject. 

I can’t remember much about that day. But what I do remember plays over and over in my head. It keeps me up at night, sometimes. The images flashing before my eyes. 

I dream of it. I see Mother with the blue flames in her hands, the set of her jaw, the despair in her eyes when she saw the vampire snatch me up and sink his teeth in me. 

The flames that followed. 

The nightmares come. Sometimes weeks apart, other times two or three times in a week.

Father usually sits with me after. He strokes my hair and talks about everything but the reason for the nightmares. I know he’s trying. I don’t think he knows what else to do.

Fiona used to come, when she still lived with us. She was always up late and she’d hear me crying out in my sleep. She’d pop her head in and if Father wasn’t there yet she’d sit on the bed with me and tell me stories of her time at Watford. The pranks she and her friends would dream up and how Mother was at her wits end half the time trying to keep them all in line. 

And then she’d sing. Not the traditional lullabies, not Fiona. That’s not her style. Her style is mainly 80’s alt rock but that isn't what she would sing to me.

She says my mother always loved the Beatles. So that’s what Fiona would sing.

She still does. She did when I stayed with her a few weeks ago, when the dreams came. There’s something particularly soothing about _“I’m Only Sleeping.”_ I start humming it as I walk further down the path. 

I wander around the side of the lodge, to the shed that’s there. It’s probably locked. When I jiggle the handle I don’t expect it to do anything, but to my surprise the door opens. I peer inside and I can see the garden equipment in the dim light. 

But I can also see a football, dusty and dirt stained, tucked between the rakes and shovels. It must be one I left behind last time we were here. I dig it out and wipe it off. 

Kicking a ball is better than thinking. 

I could do with some practice. I dribble it down the lawn then back and forth between the shrubs. There’s a short break in the hedge and I shoot the ball there, well chuffed when I get it between the greenery. It’s a much smaller space than the goal we use for games. 

I fetch the ball and dribble it again, shooting towards the hedge over and over, making more of the shots than not. This is good. I can feel the sweat running down my back but I don’t care. This is the most fun I’ve had since we’ve come to Oxford. 

My next kick sends the ball over the hedge and into the woods. I chase after it as it rolls between the trees. It’s when I bend to pick it up that I catch a flash of red in the underbrush. I take a step closer but there’s nothing there. 

I see it again a few moments later, when my ball has tumbled under the trees once more. Just a glimpse of red, glittering in the weak sunlight. 

I wonder if it’s a snake. Do they have snakes in Oxford? 

I don’t really want to find out. 

But I am curious. I pick up a stick and gingerly poke at the leaves. Nothing comes out but I see a glimmer as I move the stick around. I push the leaves away and that’s when I see the broken pieces of shell scattered in the underbrush. The fragments are a shimmery rose color.

I’ve never seen anything like this. It must be a bird but what kind? I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but pick up one of the pieces. 

It has a thicker shell than the eggs Vera uses for cooking. Heavier. Warm. It glitters in my hand. 

I put it in my pocket. 

I wonder if there are any books about birds in the library.

**_Four years later_ **

**Baz**

It’s been a few years since we’ve summered at the lodge. The arrival of my little sister kept us in Hampshire initially and the logistics of traveling with her kept us there last year as well. 

Mordelia can be a bit of a handful under normal circumstances, but she’s not the best with travel. Her terrible twos have continued unabated into age three. 

But Daphne wanted to get away for a bit this summer, so here we are. 

She isn’t so fond of the Galloway estate, and now that she’s expecting again Father indulges her every whim. And this is where Daphne wanted to be, for a change of scenery she said. I can’t see that Oxford is all that different from home but I wasn’t about to argue the point with her when she’s expecting twins. She should get to do as she likes, I’m thinking. 

It’s fine. I don’t mind so much. I far prefer being in Hampshire but I suppose I can tolerate a few more weeks here. 

The library has an eclectic collection, that’s for certain. I’m surprised the Mage hasn’t made one of his surprise visits. Perhaps he doesn’t know about it. That may very well be why Father keeps some of the books here. 

Not that I’ve found any books that are particularly helpful. For my _condition_ , that is. We’ve been here for a week and I’ve looked through the ones that looked promising. Not much more detail than the ones back home. 

I’ve learned about how to destroy someone like me. 

But not about how _to exist_ as someone like me. 

It seems I am on my own as far as figuring things out.

Father and Daphne didn’t even say anything about . . . well, I don’t want to think about that. It’s beyond shame. 

It’s revulsion.

The nights have been terrible since then. The dreams more vivid. The nightmares more frequent. 

The _thirst_ started a little over a month ago and I didn’t realize what it was at first. I was exhausted, worn out but hungry, so very hungry. Nothing satisfied me. Nothing filled the gnawing void in me. 

I ate constantly. Vera laughed as she made me sandwiches and served heaping portions on my plate. “You’re a growing boy, Basilton. Teenage boys will eat you out of house and home. I’ll have to adjust the list for market days.” 

I’d tried to laugh too but the thundering beat of her heart was drowning out almost everything by then. 

That was new too. Hearing the heartbeats of those around me, sensing the quickening of a pulse, the steady thump of blood coursing through arteries. I tried to drown it out--with music, with my violin, with running. Repeating Latin declensions in my head. 

None of that has worked very well. 

I tried to satisfy the thirst. First with blood pudding (I still don’t like it). Then I made sure to ask Vera to keep the roast beef rare for me. 

It wasn’t enough. 

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop hearing the thrum of pulsing blood all around me. 

And then . . . then . . . I lost control the day Father and Daphne went to London for her appointment. 

I hadn’t meant to do it. I’d spent the entire morning desperately chasing rabbits and squirrels to no avail. I hadn’t managed to do more than scrape my leg up and get grass stains on my jeans. 

Vera was away and no matter how much food she’d left for me, it didn’t make a difference. 

I felt _so empty._

Painfully empty. A desperate abyss of hunger.

Until after. When the blood was sloshing in my belly and for the first time in weeks I felt the thirst subside. And the shame and regret took over. 

No one mentioned it. Not Father, not Daphne. Not Vera, although I think Father cast something to make her forget. 

Not me. 

The only one who said anything was Mordelia. And it broke my heart every time she asked. 

Father must have spoken to her finally, told her he’d run off, made some excuse. I don’t know. I couldn’t bring myself to ask. But she stopped, finally stopped asking. 

My craving didn’t stop. If anything it got worse, once I’d tasted blood. I couldn’t risk getting that desperate again. I had to find a way to _deal with it._

I’ve figured out how to catch the squirrels. The rabbits still give me fits. But I’m faster now. I’m stealthier. I caught one here two days ago and didn’t even stain my shirtfront that time, just my sleeves. That’s progress, I suppose. 

It disgusts me, if I’m going to be honest. Every part of it. The hunt, the chase, the feel of the fur between my hands as I snap the neck (I can’t drink when it’s alive) (I can _never_ do that again). The way my fangs drop and then latch on. Even the first taste turns my stomach. But then . . . then the warmth of it fills me, the hunger recedes and I almost feel like myself again. 

Until I have to dispose of the drained corpse. 

That’s when the horror comes once more. At what I’ve done. At what I am. That this is my life, from now on. I scrub my hands and brush my teeth over and over, but it doesn’t wipe away the memory. 

All I can do is promise myself that I will be as humane as possible when I do it (as if that isn’t a colossal joke) (there’s nothing _humane_ about any of this). 

But I can try. I can remember to respect the life I take. To be as quick and painless as possible. To never take more than enough to get by. To be judicious as to what and where and how. 

I need to stop thinking. 

I need to stop thinking _about this_. 

I’ve read all the novels I’ve brought with me from Hampshire and I’m done searching for any answers about myself in the arcane books here. I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve found nothing useful and all it’s managed to do is make me even more frustrated and depressed. 

I scan the library shelves for lighter reading. Something to distract me, if that’s even possible.

I run across a leather-bound edition of the _Iliad_ and settle into one of the armchairs to read. I know the Minotaur doesn’t have us translate Homer from the original verse until seventh year, but I’m fluent enough in Greek already and I enjoy a challenge. 

It’s hours later when Daphne finds me and I’ll not deny the fact that I was asleep with the book resting on my chest.

She sweeps the hair back from my forehead and smiles down at me. “Achilles not providing enough excitement for you?”

I close the book and sit up. “No, it’s just a bit more challenging in the original Greek, I suppose.”

Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder and her eyes soften. “Are you getting enough sleep, Basil?”

I nod. I’m not but I don’t need to burden Daphne with that. She’s got enough going on, with Mordelia and this pregnancy. She’s pale, almost as pale as I am, and even though she’s not that far along she’s still thinner than she should be, I think. 

Her heartbeat’s steady though, as are the faint tandem beats that echo from her belly. I’d have said something to Father if they hadn’t been, even if it meant admitting how I knew. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Daphne. She means too much to me, to Father, to this family. 

I’ve not answered her question and her gaze has gone from questioning to concerned. I pat her hand. “Well, enough. You know it always takes me a bit to adjust to a new place."

Which is bollocks but better than admitting the truth about the nightmares. 

She grips my shoulder tightly. “You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“I’d tell you,” I lie.

“Alright, then.” She drops her hand and her lips curve into a smile. “Are you hungry? Shall we see if there’s any pudding left from dinner last night?”

“I wouldn't say no to that.” I smile back up at her. “You’re sure Mordy didn’t finish it off already?”

“Mordelia’s taking a nap so this may be our chance.”

Daphne has as much of a sweet tooth as I do. There’s a bit of berry crumble left and the two of us polish it off bite by bite. 

“You’ll spoil your dinner, you will,” Vera grumbles, as she takes the empty baking dish from us and shakes her head.

Daphne laughs. “I don’t think anything will spoil Baz’s appetite for one of your roasts, Vera, and I’m eating for three at this point so poor Malcolm will be lucky if we leave him a morsel."

She’s right. The four of us polish off Vera’s generous portions at dinner that evening, even Mordelia who is usually frightfully picky about what she eats. 

It’s still not enough. It’s been two days since the rabbit and I can feel the thirst gnawing at me again.

I excuse myself after dinner, on the pretense of doing some drills at the back of the garden. I do, dragging out the football and aiming some kicks at the space between the hedges. But it’s all just cover for the hunting I need to quell this thirst. 

I chase the ball into the trees and let my eyes and ears take in the sounds around me. A squirrel should do, although a rabbit would be better. 

I’m not sure I can handle anything larger. Not yet, which is as depressing a thought as it sounds. I need to get better at this but the reality of how I need to go about that is dispiriting to say the least. 

I can hear the squirrels chittering and birds chirping. I stalk one of the squirrels but it shoots up into the branches and I’m not about to go climbing after it. I have my limits. 

I go in a bit deeper and crouch down by one of the larger trees. There’s still a bit of light left although it’s dimmer here under the trees. I watch and wait, seeing the squirrels rush from tree limb to trunk, then down to the ground and up far too quickly for me to pursue. 

It’s probably easier to catch one on the lawn, like I did the other day, but I don’t want to chance someone seeing me from the house. Crowley knows if anyone did, but I’d rather not give them a repeat performance. 

I scan the trees, the underbrush, the shadowy spaces between the trees, and that’s when I see a flash of red deeper in the forest, between the trunks of the birch trees up ahead. 

Is it a fox?

I creep a little deeper into the woods. A fox would likely provide more sustenance than a squirrel or even a rabbit but they are a protected species and the thought of draining one disturbs me, in more than just the general sense of how all of this is disturbing. 

I’ve never liked the idea of fox hunts. Contributing to the demise of a protected species doesn’t sit well with me.

None of this bloody sits well with me. I’ve got no choice as far as the feeding goes--I have no idea what might happen if I try to stave it off. I’m actually a bit scared to find out, especially in a house full of people. 

I don’t think resisting is an option. I can swear off ever taking human blood but I don’t think I’ll be able to withhold myself from _all_ blood, not anymore. I was half crazed with need that first day and look what happened. I’ll have to live with the regret and guilt of that. 

I see the flash of red between the trees again. I don’t think it’s a fox. It's too bright, catching the light in a way I wouldn’t expect from a fox. 

Odd.

But familiar in a way I can’t quite explain. 

The light is starting to fade, as the sun dips down in the sky. The squirrels are keeping their distance, staying up in the trees rather than scampering across the spaces between. 

This won’t do. I need to find something. Anything. 

I move further in, slowly and silently. Well, as silently as I can. I’m not particularly skilled at it yet, although I’ve gotten better over the past few weeks. 

I’ll need to get better still.

I see movement to my left and I freeze, holding my breath. It’s a rabbit, sizeable and plump. Exactly what I need. 

It’s out of reach but thank Crowley it takes two hops in my direction, bringing it almost close enough. I hold perfectly still, barely breathing, willing the rabbit to take one more hop, maybe two to bring it within my reach. 

It does just that. 

I burst from my hiding spot, arms outstretched, my fingers brushing at and then clenching in the rabbit’s fur, at the same time as a red streak lets loose from across the clearing, colliding with me and almost knocking the rabbit from my grasp. 

There’s a confused moment where I feel the rabbit being pulled from my hands. A growl rips from my throat and I tighten my grip but almost drop my prey when I see what’s fighting me for it. 

It looks like some sort of oversized lizard or iguana but that can’t be right. They’re not native to England. 

That’s when I see the wings. 

Fucking hell. 

It's a dragon. 

It can’t be. Dragons are known to be reclusive and extremely wary of humans. 

Apparently not this one.  
  
This one is involved in a full out tug of war with me for this rabbit.

It can’t be a dragon. 

It’s too small, for one thing. It’s no bigger than a spaniel. And it’s certainly not reclusive or wary. It hisses at me and that’s when I remember about dragons and fire. I drop the rabbit as if it were a hot coal and scuttle away, breathing rapidly. 

What the bloody hell. 

I’m staring at it, at the iridescent glitter of its scales and I can’t help but be reminded of something. Something in this very wood, years ago. 

A shard of eggshell, thick and warm, rose-colored and glittering.

Could this be a baby dragon? I know it’s been years since I found the shell, so it’s not quite a baby dragon anymore but it’s still a youngster. 

Dragons are immortal (unless they have the misfortune to run into my insufferable and indiscriminate roommate Simon Snow and end up hacked to bits) but they grow very slowly after they hatch. This one must be just a few years old.

The dragon glares at me and hisses again, talons digging into the rabbit’s fur (it must be a dragon, what else could it be) (It can’t be an iguana) (iguanas don’t have wings or talons). It nearly gets knocked over as the rabbit struggles mightily. The damn rabbit is near as big as the dragon but the daft thing isn’t intimidated by the size of its prey. I can see drops of blood in the rabbit’s fur now and my fangs drop at the scent of it. 

The dragon bites at the rabbit’s throat and the rabbit goes limp, more blood welling at its neck. 

I see its wings flutter but the dragon doesn’t appear to be able to fly with the weight of the rabbit. I’m pressed against the tree, not daring to get closer. Do baby dragons breath fire or is that something only the adults can do? Surely we’ve studied this but I can’t for the life of me remember right now. 

It’s crucial information. 

The dragon struggles with its wings for a moment more and then stops and decides to drag the rabbit carcass into a shadowy recess across the clearing, keeping its golden eyes on me as it retreats. 

Its scales glow and even in the failing light of the setting sun I can see the shimmer of them, glittering gold and scarlet and a deep blood red. It’s beautiful.

The books don’t do dragons justice. 

I can’t take my eyes off of it. I stare until it disappears in the twilight shadows and then let my breath out shakily. 

It takes me almost twenty minutes to finally corner a squirrel and drain it dry. It’ll have to do for tonight. It’s near dark now and my excuse of kicking a football around is wearing thin. 

I’m out again the next day and the one after that but I don’t see the dragon again until two days later, in the late afternoon.

It’s not as bright, the clouds covering the sun, so I miss seeing the glint of the scales until it lunges at the rabbit I’ve been stalking. 

_Not so fast, you bastard._ I’ve spent the last two days in the library, doing my research on dragons. I know this one is young, likely less than five years old based on its size and that it’s not able to breathe fire at this stage. Soon enough but not quite yet.  
  
That’s why it hissed at me, rather than send a gout of flames in my direction. Lucky for me. 

I get a grip on the rabbit and I’m not about to let go. Unfortunately it seems the dragon feels much the same way. We struggle in the dirt for a moment or two but then the damn thing rakes a claw across the back of my hand and I drop my hold on the rabbit’s hindquarters with a curse. 

“You fucking arsehole,” I say, as the dragon hisses and glares whilst dragging this rabbit back to it’s nest among the trees. That’s twice now. 

I need a better strategy. 

The idea comes to me later that night. Maybe if the dragon gets food some other way it won’t fight me for it. I’ve got at least another ten days here at the lodge. I don’t intend to be wrestling in the dirt with a cantankerous midget dragon for the duration. 

I don’t dare nick food from the kitchen. Vera runs a tight ship and she knows when even one biscuit goes missing. 

I’ll have to find another way. 

Another way unfortunately involves me and a bicycle and some rambling excuse that revolves around _“better cardio”_ and _“cross-training for football season.”_ It’s all rot, of course, but no one questions me so I pedal my way to the butcher shop to buy some cuts of fresh beef. 

Then it’s just a matter of drawing the dragon out. 

It works better than expected. The smell of the fresh meat draws it out. I get a suspicious glare in my direction but I sit quietly under a tree, pretending to be engrossed in the book I’m reading, as the dragon eyes the morsel I’ve left it and then sniffs it daintily. 

It’s really quite lovely.The wings are webbed and delicate, almost see-through when stretched out, sharp spikes at the joints. The scales sparkle in the light, a mesmerizing range of red hues. I can see the sharp teeth, the curved talons, the spade like tail lashing back and forth. 

It seems the first phase of my plan is working. The dragon seizes my offering in its jaws and drags it away to devour in privacy. 

I’m off to the butcher shop the next day. And the next. 

I manage to nab a rabbit while the dragon is distracted on the second day, so I’m counting that as a success, even if I’m finding my wallet considerably lighter as a result of the frequent trips to the butcher. 

It’s on the third day that things change. 

The dragon doesn’t even bother to give me its usual glare this time, advancing confidently to the cut of meat I’ve left in the usual spot. As it sniffs the food I move a bit closer, daring to do what I’ve been longing to for the past few days. I sidle up to it, as stealthily as possible, each movement slow and deliberate so as not to spook it. 

I’m a handbreadth away when it turns its eyes to me. But it’s not the baleful stare I’m expecting. It cocks its head to the side as it regards me, looking almost curious. I hold very still. 

The dragon takes a step towards me. I’m ready for this. I’ve got a bite of meat wrapped in a bit of butcher’s paper in my hand, kept aside for just this moment.

I lift my hand ever so slowly, letting the dragon watch my every move. It sniffs the air, no doubt catching the scent. I gingerly unwrap the paper, until the morsel is sitting exposed on the palm of my hand. 

The dragon eyes the piece in my hand and then looks to the slab of meat I’ve left on the forest floor. It looks back and forth. I’m counting on it being greedy enough to want them _both._

It seems I’ve got it right. The dragon edges closer to me and leans over my palm to sniff the bite. I’m holding my breath, every muscle tense. There’s a chance it could bite me but I’m willing to risk it. 

I don’t think it will. I think we’re past that now somehow. 

The dragon darts forward, snatching the piece of meat from my hand and downing it in one gulp. I almost laugh but I don’t want to scare it off, not now, not when it’s so near. 

I swear it almost smirks as it swallows the food down and that’s when I dare to do it. I reach forward and gently run my finger along the back of its neck. 

I expect it to retreat, to snap at me, to claw my hand away. 

Instead it stretches out its neck and closes its eyes. I keep petting it, running my fingers down to where the wings attach.  
  
It shifts nearer, curling up next to my leg. I can feel the heat of it through my jeans. I keep up the repetitive motion and it's not long before I feel a thrumming sensation where it rests against my thigh and hear what almost sounds like a low hum. 

I think it’s coming from the dragon. I think it’s _purring_ or whatever it is that dragon’s do when they’re particularly content. 

I run my hand from its neck all the way down to the tail, between the wings that are now resting limp and folded on the dragon’s back. I lean down just a bit and whisper to it “I think I’m going to call you Smaug.”

Smaug and I are hunting together by the end of the week. When I trip on a root and lose my grip on a squirrel a few days later, Smaug pounces on it before it gets away and, to my surprise, drags it over to me to drop it at my feet. When I stare down at it in shock he nudges it closer to me and then flicks my leg with his tail. 

I reach for it, tentatively, in case I’m reading this all wrong, but once the squirrel is in my grasp I hear the humming again and Smaug butts his head against my leg before scampering off to track down his own meal. 

I’m grateful and near tears as I sink my fangs into the squirrel and drink deep. 

I don’t feel quite so alone. 

**_Five years later_ **

**** **Baz**

“Come along now, Snow. I’ve got someone for you to meet.” 

Simon gives me a dubious look as I pull him into the trees behind the lodge. “Someone lives out here?”

“Yes, someone I’ve been friends with for quite awhile.” I smirk and raise an eyebrow. “I may have known you for more years but Smaug and I have definitely been friends for longer.”

_“Smaug?”_

I can’t help but laugh at Simon’s expression when we finally track down my dragon. 

He looks utterly gobsmacked.

I have to admit Smaug is a fair bit larger than he was when we first met. Roughly the size of a Shetland pony and he’s nowhere near full-grown.

“There’s nothing to be alarmed at, Snow.”

“Not be alarmed? Are you fucking kidding me, Baz? This is a bloody dragon, you barmy git. And you’re _flammable!_ ”

“Smaug’s not about to torch me.”

“I see no reason to think he’s not. He’s a dragon, Baz, for Merlin’s sake. Are you daft?”

Smaug and Simon sizing each other up is enough to render me helpless with laughter. The way they both flare their wings is particularly endearing. 

It’s alright. I’m sure they’ll get along. 

Someday. 

I hope. 

**Simon**

Baz bloody Pitch has a _pet dragon._ Of all the magical creatures he chooses to befriend an animated flamethrower.

“You’re flammable!” 

He’s laughing, the insufferable prat. “It’s fine, Snow. He’d never hurt me.” 

“He might not intend to. One dragon sneeze gone wrong and you’re done for.”

“Shut up and come say hello.” Baz drags me over to the dragon. 

I won’t deny he’s beautiful. The dragon, I mean (well, Baz too, but I always think he’s beautiful).

This dragon reminds me of the one from Watford. From the day Baz cast “ _Ladybird_.”

The day it all started for us. 

I can’t let my mind wander like this. Baz is walking up to a great bloody dragon (Okay, fine, a _small_ bloody dragon) and he’s _flammable_.

Baz is so close to the dragon now and my heart is about to beat its way out of my chest. I’ve broken into a sweat. I’m absolutely _terrified_ of what this thing can do to Baz. I wonder if I can shove him out of the way fast enough when the dragon starts to breathe fire. Shield him with my wings. 

I mean, they’re dragon wings, right? They should be a bit fire-proof?

While I’m going mental over the possibilities Baz has actually sidled up to the dragon and is _petting it._ Literally running his hand back and forth along the spiky part of its neck.

“Hello there, Smaug,” Baz croons to it. His voice has gone all low and velvety. “This is my friend, Simon.”

The dragon gives me look, sizing me up, I swear to Merlin. It’s not my first time facing one of these, I know that look. I’d give anything to have my sword right now, Baz’s assurances this thing is _safe_ be damned.

Baz runs his hand to just above the wing joints and keeps petting the blasted menace.

And the fucking thing _nuzzles_ its head into Baz’s chest and closes its eyes, looking for all the world like an overgrown cat. It’s literally _purring_. There’s this weird humming sound coming from it, I swear. 

“Simon, stop looking at Smaug like you want to take his head off and get over here. I told you, he’s safe.” As if on cue the dragon wraps its tail around Baz’s lower legs and it’s just the picture of lethally powered contentment. 

“I can’t believe you named it Smaug,” I say, as I take a tentative step closer. I’d feel a sight better if I had a fire extinguisher with me. 

“You know how much I love Tolkien.”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t realise you’d be daft enough to have a pet dragon.”

Baz actually rolls his eyes at me. “Smaug isn’t a pet. I told you, he’s a friend.” Baz looks down at the dragon resting against his chest and moves his hand to place it on the damn thing’s head, far too close to its jaws in my opinion. “He gave me my first lessons in hunting and stalking.” Baz rubs the creature’s spiky crest. “He was with me when it all started.” There’s a fond look on his face as he gazes at the dragon but there’s something unspeakably melancholy there too.

I close the distance until I’m standing just in front of Baz. The dragon opens its eyes and stares at me, its golden gaze holding mine, heavy and deliberate. Then it stretches its neck out and dips its head a little. 

“Go on,” Baz whispers. 

I reach my hand out slowly and gently brush my fingers low on its forehead. Baz nods at me so I run my fingers up and down the scales there. They’re smoother than I expect as my hand slides up and rougher as my hand comes back down. The dragon—Smaug—closes its eyes and that’s when I feel a thrumming sensation. I jerk my hand back but Baz shakes his head and motions me to keep going, so I do. 

And then the blasted thing is _purring_ and Baz is smirking at me. 

“He likes it when you rub above his wing joints too,” Baz suggests and then leans in close, his breath against my ear. “Just like you do.” And he laughs, the insufferable bastard.

He’s not wrong and I’m bloody well red in the face now. 

“So this is why you think you’re such an expert on dragons, is it? Your dragon friend here?”

Baz’s arm slips around my waist and I feel him press a kiss into my hair. “Hmm. More my dragon boyfriend.” And then he laughs and Smaug looks up at him with such a puzzled expression that I can’t help but laugh too.

.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from the David Bowie song by the same name.  
> My thanks to mudblood428, penpanoply and drvivc for letting me whine to them about how this fic kept spilling into new prompts and deeper angst. And much thanks to them for reading this and convincing me it was worth finishing. 
> 
> I am probably going to end up writing a fic about Baz's two weeks with Fiona. It's something I have to do.


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